


All good prophecies rhyme (shame destiny's no poet)

by rosesarebest



Series: The Witcher's Way With Words [4]
Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Competent Jaskier | Dandelion, Developing Friendships, Family Bonding, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Loves Jaskier | Dandelion, Good Parent Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Hurt/Comfort, Injury Recovery, Jaskier | Dandelion Loves Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Multi, Yennefer needs help, law of surprise? third time's the charm, they'll admit it eventually
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-13
Updated: 2020-10-28
Packaged: 2021-03-06 15:22:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 16,374
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26441143
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rosesarebest/pseuds/rosesarebest
Summary: “Times are changing, Julian.” Malec frowned, deep lines around his eyes and mouth making his face all at once old and tired. “When the south boils, the north melts. I thank you for your service, and would not detain you any longer than you choose. You’re meant for more.” He leaned forward, dropping his voice. “Remember walls have ears, there are eyes everywhere, and a nightingale who does not sing may yet evade the hunter’s cage.”*Zola looked at the girl with undisguised longing, and Geralt thought of another woman who wept for a child before leaving him bereft and alone. He was alone no longer.*The vortex of fate swirls around Geralt and Jaskier; they'll have to fight for their peace and it's a long trek to Kaer Morhen.
Relationships: Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon & Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Tissaia de Vries & Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg
Series: The Witcher's Way With Words [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1772188
Comments: 33
Kudos: 80





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Back with my faves getting into trouble and out again (hopefully) as they each go on the run to escape Nilfgaard. Yennefer's path takes an unexpected turn and she learns that family can be something she's never experienced before. Jaskier isn't what Geralt expects, and Ciri just wants a safe place to hide.
> 
> As always based mainly on S01 of the show, but there's so much free real estate there. So much.

_All good prophecies rhyme._

The words were a constant refrain in the jumble of Geralt’s fevered brain. He faded in and out of the dark forest, tormented by faces and voices from the past.

Renfri smiled and joked, watched him with dark amused eyes, snarled through white teeth, seeking vengeance at any cost. Her life drained away while he watched helplessly, her last words a riddle he could never solve.

_with you always_

He would never leave Renfri behind, that was certain. He would carry her with him forever.

_did you know_

_what they do_

A youthful face, red hair, a tug in his chest that he couldn’t identify, a deep and simmering rage. Ma. Betrayal.

_you’re here but_

_are you really_

_you abandoned me_

Every jolt and sway of the cart sent pain skittering up his leg, down his spine, threaded with the thick press of poison flowing like sludge in his veins. Thoughts came and went, broken and jumbled.

He grabbed a potion, acting on pure instinct. The doubled bottle slid through his numb, doubled fingers. He caught it (them?) just in time and swallowed. His throat contracted around the foul taste and his belly burned as the wheel hit a rock and jarred his body, teeth clacking together, blades stabbing his ribcage.

He lost time.

_lilacs and gooseberries_

Three women came and went.

One man stayed, for a while. A long while, before his sad face morphed into an angry sneer.

_See you around_

_Fuck off, witcher_

Such venom. It hurt, worse than the ghoul bite throbbing dull and heavy in his thigh. _That will surely leave a mark_ sang a musical voice, light and playful. Soft palms and calloused fingertips, a gentle touch, burning bridges, tears - but not his, never his. A witcher was built from things given and things taken away, and some of those things were simple human reactions. No tears.

_it’s not real_

That scent. He dreaded smelling lilacs, because it always meant she’d gone. Yennefer’s overwhelming presence left an even bigger hole in her wake. How could absence be bigger than presence? He didn’t know, before, but he’d come to learn how the things he tried to grasp in his clumsy killing hands tore apart, leaving holes too large to fill.

The girl in the woods. Where was she?

Monsters erupted from the earth. He slashed and stabbed at shadows. Claws and teeth tore at his flesh. Stench of rot, red eyes, black ichor, unearthly screams, his own blood pulsing red until the ground turned slippery with it. More came, still more, a never-ending wave of death. He was so tired.

_a fitting end_

He needed–

_I require that you take care of yourself, witcher, or we shall have words_

_~~three words or less~~ _

_linked by destiny_

Maybe it was the godsdamned potions rolling around his stomach, that sinking feeling of dread, like boulders in his gut.

_girl_

_woods_

_always_

* * *

Jaskier swept his hair back into a silver ribbon, debated leaving a few strands loose before deciding it was too disreputable a look for Lord Buell’s court, then combed fragrant rose and cedarwood oils into his beard. With his silver doublet properly buttoned, he was ready for a rare performance. He was unlikely to meet any former paramours that night but still his nerves were pulled tight. This was much more than an ego boost for the Lord who had persuaded the foremost bard of his generation to attend, or even for the bard himself. Jaskier’s decision to grace the castle with his voice had little to do with the promised fat purse and adulation, and everything to do with the troubling whispers of war. Jaskier, Master Bard and Professor of Oxenfurt, intended to use his fame to gain access to the well-connected guests at the banquet. He had to know what was happening with Nilfgaard, and no-one could know the reason for his interest.

With one final look in the mirror, he fastened his cloak and took up his lute. A carriage was being sent and it would not do to be late.

Much later he returned, exhausted from smiling and flirting, singing and playing for hours. (It didn’t used to be so taxing.)

His considerable charm and persuasive skills coaxed tender morsels of information from his targets. This was a prize much greater than any hurried tryst, for his bed was now reserved to one person only. His fingertips throbbed as he set a kettle over the fire to boil water for his throat tea. Over the years he’d perfected a blend that suited him, even if the taste left much to be desired. He added extra honey to the tisane of licorice root, mallow, marigold and coneflower, and the result only wrinkled his nose slightly.

He massaged yellow dandelion salve into his fingers, feeling suddenly empty and cold despite the hot tea. Yellow reminded him of eyes looking down at him with such softness that his heart melted. Precious as it was, the memory carried with it a sharp edge that did not lessen as he finished his tea and changed from his court finery into a simple cotton nightshirt.

Bundled under furs in bed, he made a mental note to visit the herbalist to stock up on more tea plus healing salves and painkillers. Tomorrow, he told himself. Tomorrow he would begin preparations. If all he’d heard was true, he might have to leave the city sooner rather than later.

A week later he finished a plate of excellent venison and sipped a glass of Est Est. Good wine was one of the joys of civilised living. He would miss it.

“Looking for the answers to life in a goblet of wine never ends well.”

Jaskier looked up at Malec and nodded with a smile. “You’re right of course, my friend. But there is pleasure, and that’s more than enough is it not?”

“Oftentimes it is. You’ve stayed with us a while.”

Jaskier kept his smile. “I have, and I’ve found nurturing my young talents uncommonly rewarding.”

Malec regarded him for a while, and Jaskier blessed his performer’s training and years of wordless scrutiny from a certain taciturn witcher for the ability to project a calm he didn’t feel.

“Things change, yet things remain the same.” Malec gazed down at his own glass. “The sun still rises in the east, and the temperature is hotter in the south.”

“Perhaps you are right.”

“You performed for Lord Buell, how was it?”

“Enjoyable and taxing, I fear I’m getting too old to prance around all night. Lady Ana was beautiful and charming as ever.” Jaskier sighed. “Time marches on, indefatigable.”

“No man can slow the march of the inevitable. But tell me one thing.”

Jaskier’s pulse speeded and he took a long swallow of wine. “Ask away.”

“You are a travelling poet, a man of adventure and action. A man without ties.” Malec paused, fiddling with his empty glass. “But your witcher was here, was he not? How much longer can you remain in Oxenfurt, denying your true nature?”

“My dear Malec, I owe my students–”

“Nothing. You’ve already taught them more than they could ever dream of learning anywhere.”

Jaskier ignored the habitual flattery. He put down his wine and spread his hands. “You have been nothing but kind and generous since the day I arrived to beg your indulgence like some dusty street urchin.”

Malec chuckled. “The porter was not impressed, but he didn’t know you like I did. It is you who has been generous in sharing experiences unmatched by any bard before you. We’ve had to turn people away from the academy you know.”

“Really?” Jaskier knew his classes weren’t that good. He barely kept the students in order, his timetabling was eccentric to put it kindly, and he was lenient with late assignments and late attendances alike. Yet despite this, his students remained engaged and loyal.

“Most certainly. You think thirty students per poetry class is normal?”

Jaskier had honestly never given it a moment’s thought. “Maybe?”

Malec scoffed. “We had to raise the entry requirements just to keep applications at a reasonable level. Your modesty is refreshing, but unwarranted.”

Jaskier allowed himself a moment to preen, and then a moment more. “Why thank you. I had no idea.”

“Times are changing, Julian.” Malec frowned, deep lines around his eyes and mouth making his face all at once old and tired. “When the south boils, the north melts. I thank you for your service, and would not detain you any longer than you choose. You’re meant for more.” He leaned forward, dropping his voice. “Remember walls have ears, there are eyes everywhere, and a nightingale who does not sing may yet evade the hunter’s cage.”

Jaskier held the older man’s gaze, parsing the warning and the wisdom in his words. A serving girl came in to bring candied fruit and nuts for dessert. Malec sat up, asked about the next semester’s timetable, and the rest of the evening passed in peace.

At the door, swathed in his fur-lined cloak, Jaskier turned to Malec and embraced him. Malec stiffened in surprise, then clapped him on the back.

“Go with grace, Julian.”

“Be well, Malec. I’ve enjoyed our time together.”

Malec smiled, his pale eyes suspiciously glossy. “You will always find sanctuary here, my friend,” he murmured. “Keep your wits about you.”

“I’ll tell you all about it when we meet again. Thank you, for everything.” He squeezed both Malec’s hands then turned away from the bright lights of the town house towards the uncertain dark. He hoped they would share future stories over another bottle of wine, but who knew when that might come to pass?

Jaskier finished oiling his elven lute and played a short melancholy tune, humming along. It had been the heart and soul of his musical practice since Filavandrel gifted it to him in Dol Blathanna decades before. He never travelled far without his most treasured possession, which was why he was leaving it with Malec Aldenyll for safe keeping. If the Academy were ransacked, they’d all have much larger problems than saving a priceless lute.

Priscilla had helped him gather his travel supplies to avoid drawing attention. His students expected him to continue teaching. He hated to disappoint but the appearance of a normal routine was crucial.

War was coming, just as Geralt had said, and on its own timetable. Fucking his way across the Continent had left Jaskier limited options for sanctuary, but he had one or two places he could call on - if it came to that. He hoped he wouldn’t need to beg anyone’s favour on his way northeast to Ban Glean.

On a dark winter morning Jaskier strapped his instrument case to one side of a sweet-tempered grey gelding, and his bags and bedroll to the other. Dressed in muted colours and a dark green hat with a black feather, he mounted Pegasus and rode east until dwellings gave way to countryside. Then he turned south, trusting destiny to lead him true.

* * *

Zola had always wanted a daughter, and destiny rewarded her patience by sending a pale-haired waif to her arms, lost and searching for someone. War had left so many seeking what could never be found. The forest cottage proved their salvation, hidden from both refugees and pursuing soldiers. She and her husband did what they could, but the first priority was their own survival, always. She dreamed of teaching Fiona, of braiding her hair and singing her to sleep, of grandkids to spoil one day. No doubt the girl would have nightmares after living through the horror of a Nilfgaard attack, but they would overcome her fears together and learn to love one another. Zola had love enough to spare.

She greeted her husband in high spirits, but her heart broke when her surprise daughter emerged from the forest clinging to a witcher’s side like a burr. The Butcher of Blaviken no less. What good had he ever done, to deserve such a boon? It was only later as Yurga let her weep in his arms that she realised this witcher was the heroic White Wolf of the songs. Where did the truth lie?

“A pox on that witcher. They’re naught but cold-hearted killers.”

“They might call him Butcher but he risked himself to save me, Zola. He could have left me to the ghouls and none would be the wiser. He asked no reward. I had nothing to offer but the law of surprise.”

Zola wiped her eyes. Destiny had used her to save the girl, only to pass her on to a monster hunter. She’d never understand, but at least her husband was safe and well. That would have to be enough.

* * *

Geralt limped along the forest path, drawn by a wordless compulsion. The last of the ghoul poison whispered in his veins as he extended his senses to pick up crashing footsteps, careless of discovery, accompanied by a rapid heartbeat. Unarmed, he was in no mood for a fight, but then he saw pale hair over a grubby blue cloak and something unnamed sparked in his veins.

In the woods a girl ran towards him, and he allowed destiny’s vortex to pull them together. Small arms tightened around him.

“People linked by destiny will always find each other.” The words were long burned into his heart.

She looked up at him with watery eyes and said, “Who is Yennefer?”

If he were the laughing kind he would have chuckled at least. What was it with him and the thrice damned law of surprise? Destiny, once again, had fucked him over and twined his path with every person he tried so hard to avoid. Perhaps he would have to start accepting his fate; at least then he might sleep better. He had a sudden image of a sealed bottle and a gasping mouth dripping blood, and exhaled a slow breath. She was so small, tiny in the grasp of his killing hands.

“Talk later. Let’s go.”

Back at the cottage, he noted Zola’s sidelong glances at him and schooled his features into blankness. He couldn’t do anything about his bulk, black clothing, and threatening aura, so he lowered his yellow eyes and held on to his child. These were good people and he owed them much.

Zola looked at the girl with undisguised longing, and Geralt thought of another woman who wept for a child before leaving him bereft and alone. He was alone no longer.

Zola sniffed and set bread and cheese on the table. “Thank you for my husband’s life, witcher.”

“Hmm.”

“The song’s true then, a friend to humanity.”

Geralt nodded minutely, gaze trained on the girl trying to retain at least a semblance of her courtly manners while tearing into her food. Cintra had fallen. Her life had changed utterly in the space of a few days, while he offered her no familiarity and little security. But they had each other, and their embrace under the trees called to something unexpected in his chest. 

Then he remembered; songs and laughing blue eyes, a friendly bump of shoulders and a warm smile. The way of the Path was a call to honour his duty, ingrained and unconscious. These feelings were something more than duty and he turned them over in his mind like the taste of an unfamiliar food, seeking a connection to something long forgotten or perhaps unknown. It didn’t make sense yet.

Geralt’s wound soon healed but he stayed with the merchant and his wife, sensing Zola’s reluctance to give up the child trailing him like a shadow in a grubby blue cloak. Ciri needed rest and there would be precious few luxuries on the road. He let Zola dress her in boy’s clothes more suited to travel, and teach her how to wind her hair up and hide it in a cap like the one she’d been wearing that far-off day in Cintra, when he watched her playing at knucklebones with common boys. They were probably trying to escape death, if it hadn't found them already.

Ciri watched him with a watery green gaze that seemed to know so much, but she said nothing. He said nothing back, nor did he speak to Roach as he brushed her coat and checked her hooves, willing down the restless need to be away. Ciri would be hunted and he would not allow her to be captured.

“Where will you sleep, master witcher?”

“I will put my bedroll on the floor.” He quelled Zora’s objection with a look. “It is better I stay close.”

That night he was roused from meditation by terrified muttering. Ciri thrashed in her sleep and wailed, the bed vibrating around her. He had to do something before she woke Zola. He knelt next to the bed and reached out an awkward hand. Ciri shuddered when his fingers touched her cheek and he almost snatched them back, but she sighed and turned towards them. He hummed deep and low until she relaxed into a deeper sleep but he remained watchful, killing hands at the ready.

Two days later they stood outside as the sky lightened to dull grey. Roach snorted and tossed her head, laden with bags and supplies. The extra rest had been good for both of them, and Geralt was grateful. Not many would have done the same. He watched impassively, reins in his hand, as Zola embraced Ciri tightly.

“Take care, Fiona. You’re always welcome if ever you pass this way again.” She smiled through her tears.

Ciri nodded, eyes wide. “You’ve been so kind and I am eternally grateful.”

“Hmm.” All eyes flicked to Geralt and he swallowed, eager to escape scrutiny. But he’d learned over the past two decades that a few words could ease the way. “Thank you.”

“You’re decent, Butcher.” Yurga nodded. “Safe travels, both of ye.”

Geralt lifted Ciri onto Roach and sat behind her. She waved to the figures standing outside the last sanctuary she would know for a while.

“She was really nice to us.”

Geralt hummed in response. Detecting no immediate threat, he turned north.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yennefer digs deep to burn Sodden. Exhausted by her furious efforts, she finds an unlikely refuge.
> 
> Geralt takes his first uncertain steps into parenthood.
> 
> It's all about perceived strength/weakness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What happened at Sodden and after? Time to hear how Yennefer's story continues. Thanks for reading.

_Forget the bottle. Let your chaos explode._

Yennefer closed her eyes, breathed slow and even, dug down. She didn’t need to go far.

_You chose power._

_You’re important to me._

_You have a child surprise?_

She moaned, soft and long. Her power was a wild thing pacing its cage, eyes glowing. Her hands tingled and grew hotter.

_you will lose her_

_will not regain her womb._

The bars melted. She opened her mouth, the cage in cinders, and unleashed the beast.

Sparks burst from her fingertips and kindled into flame.

She threw her head back in the howl of a wolf or banshee. Her flames played around Tissaia - no, never hurt Tissaia - sitting defenceless on the ground. Flames would not touch her protector, her saviour, the one who in the end bid her break her chains and dance on the graves of her enemies.

She had known something similar once before, when the djinn writhed and bubbled beneath her skin, but this was more. Much more. She wept and cried out and exulted in power with no shackles.

Her enemies shrieked in the inferno of her pain. There was no time to relish their deaths. Instead, she went deeper.

_crooked girl_

_four marks_

_I won’t go_

The field of fire burned red, yellow, white, hotter than she’d ever known. Yet a shard of ice remained, lodged deep in her soul beyond the reach of even this volcanic eruption.

Blood and tears boiled away to ash and steam.

_you weren’t taking control you were losing it_

_they took my choice_

A fearful scream of her name nudged at the edge of her mind. Almost lazily, she thought her mentor away, and as Tissaia scrambled away from greedy flames she fell into a portal.

_What more do you want?_

_Everything. I wanted everything_

_And now I set it all ablaze, for this world has nothing more to give me._

One final surge, and she felt the endless stream of rage falter. Her veins bled lava; her heart, demonic fire. Deadly hands trembled, candle flames burned to nothing and about to go out.

_She’s no daughter of mine_

She screamed, or thought she did

_you, a mother?_

and as her last breath trickled from her lips

_I dreamed of being important to someone_

the world tilted sideways

_your greatest fear_

and went dark.

_no-one would love you_

Alone, she surrendered to the void.

_She floated, weightless and without pain, while voices whispered around her._

_“Will she wake?”_

_“Perhaps, in time. She is a strong one but she is woefully depleted.”_

_“Melitele, hear us. Show favour to our sister, who suffers…"_

When she next became aware, she was lying in bed in an unfamiliar room. Moonlight trickled through an open window and the air was—it was—she cast about for a sense of temperature but her face and limbs were numb, she couldn’t feel them. When she tried to move everything was heavy, disconnected, and no sound came from her parched throat.

_I can’t_

_I’m not_

What was happening? There were sounds but she couldn’t make out any words. Was she a ghostly spirit with no body? Tears blurred her vision but no words came.

“Be calm.” A voice from before commanded, and she had no strength left to fight.

“Sleep now.”

She let the silent dark swallow her.

* * *

Geralt walked beside Roach, scenting the air. Rain was promised in the dark pall of clouds ahead; fortunately the nearest village was within riding distance. He considered sleeping in the forest again. He would be fine but the waif was a cold and hungry presence, silent on the horse. Their rations were almost gone. He couldn’t risk leaving her to go hunting and he couldn’t risk discovery and the limited options he had warred within him. He sighed and pulled Roach to a halt.

Green eyes looked down at him. “We’re stopping here?”

“No. We need to move faster. Rain’s coming.” He swung himself up behind Ciri and nudged Roach into a walk. Ciri stiffened and grabbed at the pommel.

“It’s, we’re not that far. I’ve got you.” He bracketed the child between his arms. “Hold tight.”

“Geralt?” Her voice wobbled and he was glad he couldn’t see her face and witness his failure to be what she needed.

“I have you, don’t worry.” Roach tossed her head impatiently, and Geralt reached for some word of comfort. “You want to sleep in a bed? Then hold on.”

He urged Roach forward at a brisk walk, and when Ciri relaxed fractionally he tapped his heels against the horse’s flanks. Roach trotted along the slippery road, barely reacting to a distant roll of thunder. But Ciri startled, and Geralt held her closer without slowing down. He had to get her under cover.

Fat raindrops peppered his cloak as they arrived at the village inn. He left Roach in the stable with a coin for the boy to take care of her. Both swords concealed under his cloak, he pulled Ciri’s hat well down.

“Stay quiet.” He took her hand and steeled himself. His own hair was mostly out of sight but there was nothing to be done about his eyes. He was no good at interacting with people, but he had a child to consider so he would do what was necessary.

Inside, a fire crackled in the hearth. The bar was clean and the innkeeper didn’t flinch at the look of him. Ciri gripped his hand and said nothing. So far, so good.

“What can I get you?”

“Ale, water for the child, two hot meals and a room.” A soft voice whispered in his memory. Try to be polite Geralt, it really helps. “And hot water. Please.”

“Room’s upstairs, first on the right.” He passed over a key. “You’re just ahead of the storm, I’d not keep a child out in such weather.”

Geralt nodded by way of reply, already counting out coin from his meagre purse.

Soon they were seated in the far corner. Ciri sipped water and studied the woodgrain of the table. She perked up when two bowls of hot stew with hard bread rolls appeared.

While she ate, Geralt observed from behind his cup of watery ale. These were common people, no swords to be seen though he expected some carried daggers for protection. The innkeeper would have something behind the bar for when things turned unruly; a club or a staff perhaps.

There was one particularly brawny man near the door, his thick arms suggesting he was a smith. A group of three younger men were engaged in a loud but good-humoured game of cards. Still shrouded in his hood, Geralt turned his attention to the stew. There was little meat but plenty of root vegetables, and he tasted bone broth rounding out the flavour. When her bowl was empty Ciri’s cheeks had a little more colour, but he couldn’t relax.

“Let’s go up.” He gathered his bags and let Ciri go ahead of him. Once inside he locked the door. They had two narrow beds and a small hearth, with a basin and jug from which a thin curl of steam rose into the cool air. Geralt took the bed near the door and shrugged off his damp cloak.

“It’s so good to have a bed.” Ciri pulled off her boots and cap while Geralt started the fire and lit the candle before resting his swords within reach of the bed.

“I need to check on Roach. Get ready for bed and don’t open the door to anyone but me.” He glanced at wide green eyes and she nodded once. “I’ll knock twice, and twice again.” He went out and listened for the turn of the key before retreating. They both needed a break.

Camping and surviving on jerky and plain rabbit was usual for him, but he couldn’t imagine how it felt for a princess used to the best of everything. He found Roach well brushed and eating oats. His fingers checked her tack with practised movements while his mind wandered.

Coin was low and Ciri needed more stops. She’d been far less trouble than he expected, but there was no hiding the fact that Nilfgaard wanted her. For what, he couldn’t tell. As the last survivor of Cintran royalty, she could be married off to legitimise a claim to the crown. He didn’t need to know about the politics, he just had to reach shelter in the ruined fortress of Kaer Morhen while they worked out what to do with her. And of course Jaskier would help, when they managed to meet up again. But before all that, he had to look for a contract or they’d run out of money. And the rain would make hunting miserable. He sighed and returned to the room.

Ciri let him in and hopped back into bed. Her braided hairstyle looked much messier than when Zola had done it, but he knew nothing about hair beyond washing and hacking it with a dagger when it got too long. He sat on his bed, ran a hand through his own lank strands, and tamped down the desire for clever fingers on his scalp. Desire and need were nothing. He had a job to do. At least she looked less deathly pale, and he was grateful that their colouring was alike enough they could plausibly be related. Not everyone knew witchers were sterile.

“What will we do tomorrow?”

“Have to find work. You stay here.”

She pressed her lips together. “Can’t I come with you?”

“Too dangerous. I’ll be as quick as I can.” He didn’t like the idea. He liked the tears that sprang to her eyes even less.

“Please don’t leave me. I’ll be no bother, please Geralt.”

He locked his jaw. This was no place for a child, no job for a witcher who’d never been part of a human family.

She swallowed a huge gulp of air, and squared her shoulders. “You have to take me with you. I’m your apprentice and I can mind your horse while you work. You have to because if anything happens… I’ll be alone again.” She trailed off into a whisper.

“Don’t even know if there’s any contracts this late in the year.”

“Well then we’ll go look tomorrow, together.”

Her heartbeat spiked, rabbit-fast. He hated that he was no good at this. Hated the anxiety that thickened the air. Outside rain lashed at the window. He exhaled slowly, dropped his shoulders.

“We're up at daybreak to check the noticeboard.”

Ciri blinked rapidly and nodded. “I should get some sleep then. Goodnight.” Her lips quirked in an almost smile, then she turned away and burrowed under the covers.

Geralt rinsed his face and hands in the cooled water, slipped off his boots and knelt by the hearth. Ciri’s breathing evened out immediately and he covered her with another of the thin blankets from his bed. How she felt safe with him he had no idea.

Muted noise from the bar filtered upstairs but he was soon able to slip into light meditation. Tomorrow was its own problem. For now, he would conserve his strength.

* * *

Yennefer climbed from the depths towards awareness, simultaneously light as air and immovable as stone. She opened her eyes still feeling she’d left part of her body behind. The light dazzled and she screwed her lids shut with a gasp.

“You’re awake at last.” The voice was familiar, but the speaker’s name skated away from her.

Her lips parted and split open, dry and cracked. Her throat was parched earth. Her cry was a mere exhalation of air.

“Be still. You must take tiny sips.”

A cup against her lips. She swallowed but drops spilled down her chin. She wanted more coolness and gulped, choking when it entered her windpipe. What was happening?

“Bessa, prop her up and then wait outside.”

A measured, imperious tone she should know. Hands rearranged her so that she was more upright, tucking the covers around before the footsteps scurried away. Yennefer shivered. Shameful tears slipped from her eyes.

“Hush. You’ve been asleep for days and injured. We will heal you but first, drink. Carefully.”

“Ti—”

“Drink.”

She sipped with more success, then opened her eyes a fraction. All she could see was a cup, so she drank more until no more came, then flopped back exhausted.

“Tissaia.” It sounded like a sigh.

“Yes, I am here. You are in Aretuza. Now that you’re awake, you will immerse fully in the waters. Then we will talk. If you are strong enough.”

Yennefer peeled her eyes open to see Tissaia standing by the bed with her hands folded. She looked regal as always in a high collared dark green dress, her medallion glinting in the candlelight that cast shadows on her cheekbones.

“Bessa and Kalynn are here to help you.” She swept away before Yennefer could react, leaving two novices to bring a wheeled chair forward. Yennefer scoffed. She’d never accepted help in her life and she wasn’t about to start.

Her cheeks burned with humiliation as they wheeled her along the corridor. Not only had she required assistance to sit at the edge of the soft mattress, her legs had refused to cooperate when she tried to stand. Unable to control her body, she swayed and was only saved by the novices’ fast reactions. Almost as though they expected her to fall she thought sourly, watching torches flicker along an unfamiliar route leading downwards. She wiggled her fingers and toes, and swallowed down the rising panic when she couldn’t feel them. It was fine, she was going to be fine.

At an ornately carved door, the novices left her alone. She heard them whispering as they hurried away, their voices soon disappearing. What cursed fate awaited her?

Nothing prepared her for the sight of Tissaia appearing before her as the door shimmered and vanished.

“What is this?” Yennefer demanded, or tried to. Her voice was hoarse and broken.

Tissaia didn’t reply. Instead she wheeled the chair down to the edge of a glowing pool. Above it, an arrangement of chains hung ready. Yennefer’s heart contracted in sudden fear.

“No, no, I don’t want to go—”

“This is necessary, Yennefer. There will be no pain.” A hand touched her shoulder briefly. “Forgive me, I must remove your shift.”

She wept silent tears, one dripping for each opened button down the front of her shift, and could not bear to watch Tissaia strap her in the chair and fix chains to its handles.

“Now, into the pool.”

Tissaia moved away and cranked a large metal handle. The chair rolled forward smoothly and soon water lapped at her ankles, then calves, then higher until she was submerged up to her neck. Tremors spread through her body and she whimpered.

“Be calm. Open your eyes and breathe.”

She couldn’t resist the oddly familiar command. Warmth crept through her limbs and she was floating, like before. The voices of her old classmates came to her.

_Don’t be afraid, you are safe here._

_She swam through the water, light and free. She couldn’t feel her arms and legs but that was unimportant, she didn’t need them. No worries, no concerns, let power move through you like a ripple and then forget._

_Swim with your sisters. Safe._

_This was what she was meant for._


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Geralt juggles needs and wants. Jaskier tries to sort truth from myth. And they both try to evade the search for Ciri and stay out of Nilfgaard's clutches. Simple.

* * *

Geralt emerged from meditation while the sky was still dark. He splashed water on his face and sat on the floor with his potion pack. Careful counting confirmed what he already knew; he was low on specialist potions and critically so on ingredients for some of his blade oils. This close to the Solstice everyone was rationing supplies to last out the depths of winter, and he hoped for at least a couple of decent contracts to pad his dwindling purse. There was no chance of obtaining monster parts without work, and the chances of success were much less without those parts to make potions; a dilemma indeed.

Next, he pulled a fine linen handkerchief from the bottom of his personal bag and inhaled deeply. The scent of camomile and lavender was almost gone. He rubbed the flowers embroidered on the corner between his fingers, traced the letter J, and put it away. Witchers were not permitted to want, and without wanting a thing he could not miss it. The hollow space in his chest simply meant he needed to eat.

Travelling with the child took twice as long as usual, and without Jaskier’s contribution he’d have to budget both time and money carefully. The child in question slept on. She’d had a quieter night to his relief, and he slipped out quietly in search of breakfast and information. When he returned she was sitting on the bed already dressed.

“Here, eat.” He placed the bowl of thin porridge on the table. “We leave in fifteen minutes.”

Ciri nodded silently and devoured the porridge without complaint, then put on her hat and gloves. “Ready,” she said.

Geralt stood before the noticeboard, reins in hand, and swore under his breath. The flyer had no image but the offer of a generous bounty for information about a green-eyed, pale-haired girl was an unwelcome start to the day.

“We need to keep moving.” He snatched a note describing attacks near the river, most likely drowners. The pay was low but so was the risk. He lifted Ciri onto Roach and swung up behind her. “How good is your riding?”

“What do you mean?”

“Roach will take you away from danger but you have to keep your seat.”

“I’ll be alright.”

They went on in silence. He was looking for a bend in the river marked by a stand of willow trees and gently sloping banks, popular for travellers to take a rest or water their horses. He pulled Roach up a little way off under beech trees, then dismounted and sheathed both swords on his back.

“If anyone comes, tap her with your heels and go.”

Ciri’s lip trembled. “You’re coming back though.”

“Yes,” he snapped, then sighed. “I’ll be back. If – Roach will come when I whistle.” He patted the mare’s neck. “She’s a good horse and she’ll return to me. This should be quick.” This was exactly what he wanted to avoid; a frightened child who couldn’t come or stay and was a distraction he didn’t need.

He strode towards the river. Perhaps an easy fight would dispel some of the tension in his shoulders and grant a sense of accomplishment, however small.

He found Ciri and Roach where he left them. Ciri wrinkled her nose at the dripping sack he tied to the saddle but said nothing.

“Need proof to get paid.”

Three drowners weren’t worth a lot but the alderman paid up easily enough, and the organs he harvested were a bonus. They bought some salted fish, cheese and hard bread for travel. Game would be scarcer and more underfed as winter progressed but perhaps he could set snares instead of hunting. Northern forests were thicker with better cover but also more danger. There was no way to make the planned Stanion rendezvous in time and he cursed his earlier optimism, based on experience that did not include a child.

“Can we stay another night?”

“Hmm.” He led Roach out of the village, heading north. The day was damp but not wet, better for travel. “Have to keep moving.”

“They’re looking for me, aren’t they?”

She must have seen the notice and there was no sense in denying it. “Yes. But you’re travelling as a boy apprentice, not a princess. I won’t let anyone take you.”

She shivered, and he surprised himself by gathering the reins in one hand and putting the other on her waist.

“I’m—I know it’s hard. There’s a place where we’ll be safe. A long way off.”

“We should keep moving then.” She patted his hand then gripped the pommel. “I won’t slow you down.”

Geralt took up the reins and they moved off, gathering speed until Roach tossed her head and broke into a trot. He hadn’t recognised fear for a long time, but there was a slow simmer under his skin that he put down to reasonable caution. He extended his senses as much as he could, past the quick pulse of his child, past the steady beat of hooves, searching for danger.

Ciri was almost asleep by the time they stopped to make camp. He quickly gathered wood and built a fire. Other nights she pestered him with questions, but after some hot camomile tea and bread she was soon asleep in her bedroll. They had covered a fair distance, but short days were against them and he could not risk night travel. Once again he settled into a light meditation, stilling his mind and letting his body rest. Owls hooted and a curious fox strayed nearby, but the night passed without incident.

Three days later they arrived at a larger village, almost a small town. Geralt scanned the noticeboard. There was nothing about a princess, but two notices suggested an arachas infestation in caves a few miles further down the road, and some unnamed creature snatching first sheep and then a child.

“If I can complete these contracts, I’ll have enough money to buy more supplies.”

Ciri nodded. “A bed would be lovely tonight.”

“Hmm.” He knew she needed a decent meal, and a bath, and a good night’s sleep. But each passing day the itch to be away further north grew until even his witcher self-control was straining to put his heels to Roach’s flanks and gallop hard towards something good, instead of fleeing some indeterminate danger. He wanted to be in Stanion, greeted with a welcoming smile and laughing blue eyes.

“I will make enquiries and then we’ll go find an inn.”

Geralt despatched the arachas without incident and hurried back to the town. As soon as the fight was over, the slow simmer of reasonable caution ramped up for every moment Ciri was out of his sight. Yet he could not move too fast or suddenly, in case people reacted badly. So he took measured steps as he stabled Roach, moved through the tavern and walked upstairs. He tapped twice and twice again, listening for the child’s heart, tension unwinding minutely when the lock slid open.

“Was it a hard fight? Are you alright?”

“It was as expected.” He set the swords near the door and his bag on the floor.

“Did they pay you?”

“Yes.” Methodically he shed his armour and sat on the bed. “The other contract is not so easy. It pays well and that means more risk than I can take. I need to know you’re safe.”

She nodded, twisting a lock of hair in her fingers before dropping it and folding her hands. “I’m holding you back. Sorry.”

He didn’t know what to do with the apology. She wasn’t the one who was failing.

“We’ll stay tonight. Quick visit to the market first thing.” He could probably trade creature parts for potion ingredients, and start to replenish his stocks. An underprepared witcher was a dead witcher. A dead witcher couldn’t protect anyone.

They ate downstairs, watching the other patrons from a corner. Geralt knew himself to be poor company and the child needed to be around other humans. The innkeeper’s wife had taken a shine to Ciri.

“Here, have another,” she said, pressing extra bread into Ciri’s hand. “You must eat if you want to grow up big and strong, my boy.” She patted her head and moved on to the next table.

Ciri pocketed the roll and Geralt remembered a young man with bread in his pants. He pushed the memory away as someone started to bang a drum, singing some nonsense about a blue-eyed maiden pining over her knight gone to war. Geralt’s heart was much too measured to skip a beat, but it was Jaskier’s song badly sung, and he was shocked to discover how much he hated that.

“What’s wrong?”

Damn these perceptive humans and their emotional sorcery. Jaskier used to do that, read his mood from the barest of reactions, and now he had a child of twelve summers reminding him of things he had no right to be missing.

“Eat up.”

“Don’t you like the singing? I miss music,” she said wistfully.

He did not want to think about all she had lost. She bore his silence and the hardships of life on the road without complaint, and he was the last person to offer comfort.

“Tell me about your favourite songs,” he said instead.

She grinned, delighted. “Grandmother didn’t care much for music but I had a tutor for a short while. Learning the dances for later, you know.”

She babbled on about lost love and starry skies and beautiful flowers while he sipped ale and let the sound of her voice wash over him, occasionally grunting to show he was paying some attention. It was almost like old times and he allowed himself to be soothed by chatter that skated over the void in his life, like a thin crust of ice over a deep lake.

Next morning they went on their way after an early trip to the market. Geralt had a route in mind that took them through settlements every few days to resupply and stay a night if he dared. Ciri was in front of him talking about her attempts to learn an instrument. She had rarely spoken so much about her past life but he caught a faint sound up ahead and halted Roach to listen again. The screech was closer.

“And my tutor told me to—”

“Hush.” He dismounted, then armed himself with potions and silver sword before pointing to a stand of pines a little way off the road. “Wait under the trees. If anyone comes—”

“Go. I know.” Ciri took the reins and left.

Geralt walked towards the noise. Just his luck to come across the creature he’d decided not to hunt. It didn’t matter now. He had a job to do.

The wyvern was hungry and underfed, screaming rage at the scavenger come to steal its kill. At least it was a sheep and not another child. Geralt circled and evaded its swiping claws with ease, throwing Igni to scorch its wings and then closing in ignoring the stench of burning flesh to plunge his silver sword through its chest.

Walking back with his trophy, he took stock of his physical condition. He noted a deep score to his left vambrace that would need mending, and some tightness in a recent scar to his abdomen. Witchers could manage on meditation and very little sleep, but a night in the inn had been of benefit to him as well as Ciri. Better food and rest meant he was stronger and able to fight with maximum efficiency. It was justifiable.

As Roach trotted back to the town Geralt revised his plan. With the extra coin he’d be able to buy a tent, and save money to get warmer clothes for the trek north. And since Ciri seemed confident with Roach, they would move faster. Two nights camping and then a stop in Mortlak. He’d still be late to Stanion but the bard wouldn’t be hard to find, a bright peacock among dull chickens.

* * *

Jaskier winced as he drained his cup, though whether it was due to the piss-poor ale or the off-key warbling assaulting his ears was hard to say. These people deserved better, but then beggars couldn’t be choosers.

“By Melitele’s tits, that’s bad,” the barkeep muttered. “Shut it, will ya?” he shouted at the singer, who threw him an obscene gesture but stopped and slumped back in his seat.

Jaskier sighed. “Thank the gods.”

“That’s my brother, stranger.” The barkeep sneered, “Think you could do better? You don’t look the type.”

Jaskier smiled easily. No sense starting a fight so early in the evening, with no-one to watch his back. “Perhaps when he’s not in his cups he’d prove to have a fine voice. Never judge a book by the cover, I always say.” He watched the erstwhile singer wobble and almost fall off his stool. “I’d like a room and a bath please. No singing, I promise.”

The barkeep scowled and passed over a key. “Upstairs, last on the left, and mind yourself. We’ve no need for a jester here.”

“Thank you kindly.”

Jaskier didn’t tarry over his bath. Sacrifices had to be made in the name of efficiency. Why he hardly recognised himself these days, sleeping in the woods and avoiding larger towns since his lucky escape. He’d pulled down his hat and stayed in his corner seat as black-garbed soldiers crowded the tavern and seized the bard playing there. His lute playing had in truth been rather crude, but hardly worthy of a kidnapping followed by whatever unpleasant means they used to extract information.

Jaskier pushed away his guilt at not intervening, since not one person offered the poor bard aid. He saw with startling clarity that he absolutely needed to keep the lowest of profiles. That very night he pulled the feather from his hat and donned his short sword, his friend Malec’s words repeating in his brain.

_a nightingale that does not sing may yet evade the hunter’s cage._

The army seized a bard. The army sought a princess. Perhaps they believed one was the route to the other, and a witcher connected the two.

He’d spent two decades singing Geralt’s praises, and this was an outcome no-one could have predicted. Success proved a two-edged blade indeed. He dried himself and dressed to go back to his room.

The witcher’s final words hummed deep in his chest.

_The beard looks well on you_

Looked like it was a fixture for the foreseeable future.

_Stay safe, bard_

The ghost of their parting kiss still lingered on his lips as he packed his bags. Perhaps it was better to leave before dawn.

Travelling south, Jaskier came across refugees fleeing the war that left Cintra aflame and Calanthe dead with her entire royal household. He heard fantastical tales of Sodden burning, of a demon army spitting fire and consuming the Nilfgaardian forces, of the earth cracking open and swallowing men and horses alive, of mages and magic.

The only thing he could be sure of was that there was a kernel of truth to all the stories. His problem was identifying truth among the fearful exaggeration and distortions that he, a master storyteller himself, recognised as embellishment to make a tale more thrilling or chilling, according to the intended audience.

Camping in the forest was safer, but he had to be with people to hear the latest news of the war. When he risked a tavern stay, he read the room and kept a low profile.

Most noticeboards held promises of riches in return for the location of a girl with pale hair and green eyes. Jaskier knew his witcher would have claimed his child surprise or died trying. Since a dead witcher was an unacceptable outcome, he chose to believe that Geralt was out there, running and hiding with a recognisable child. And if he was right, he’d hear word of the White Wolf and find them because Melitele knew they needed him.

He pressed on, swimming against the tide of humanity, listening for any whisper of yellow eyes and white hair.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As winter deepens Jaskier offers help, Ciri needs help, Geralt looks for help, and destiny meddles as usual.

The day dawned bright but cold. Frost rimed fallen leaves and grass, and Jaskier shivered inside his tent. He did not delay breaking camp and was soon on his way out of the forest. Perhaps he could buy fresh bread in the next settlement to eat still warm while he checked notices and chatted up anyone who happened to be around.

“What do we have here, Pegasus?” Jaskier pulled up and dismounted. A handcart lay on its side on the path, with firewood scattered around. As he got closer he heard groans. A grey-haired woman sat a few feet ahead. She tried to rise but crumpled with a yelp of pain.

He hurried forward. “Might I help, my good woman? No, don’t move.” He spread his hands but did not touch her.

She looked up at him with red cheeks and watery grey eyes. “I slipped on ice and my ankle hurts so.”

“Then permit me to lend you my aid, I am at your service.”

“Pretty words sir,” she said. “My cottage is close by but I fear my ankle will not bear my weight.”

“Ah, now that I can assist with but first, your cart.”

He repacked the wood leaving room for her to sit on the back.

“If you would loop your arms about my neck, I will lift, and we’ll have you home in no time.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“Call me Erik, dear lady.”

The ground was treacherous, and it took a little time to get the woman settled and the reins attached. Jaskier took up the handles and called back, “Away we go!”

As the forest thinned out a small cottage surrounded by bushes came into view. Waving away her protests, Jaskier lifted the woman who called herself Mabyll and carried her into the surprisingly spacious front room.

The ceiling was hung with drying plants on racks and various bottles lined the shelves that took up much of one wall. A healer, then. There were two closed doors he guessed led to bedrooms.

He built up the fire before going out to untack Pegasus and stack the wood under cover. Back inside he threw off his fur-lined cloak, warm after all his exertions.

“Let me see your ankle.” He moved it gently and looked up into eyes which observed him shrewdly. “I think it’s sprained not broken thankfully, but it needs binding. I expect you have wolfsbane and willow bark?”

She chuckled. “You know a little of herbs I see.”

“I know a little of many things.”

He followed her directions to apply salve and wrap the swollen joint in cloth strips, bound tight enough to support it. By the time he was done, the water was hot enough to make her choice of tea for them both. He sighed with pleasure; red berries and honey gave a smooth flavour, with an added heat he couldn’t quite identify.

“This tastes wonderfully warming, Mabyll.”

She smiled and nodded. “It’s my special winter blend, good for strength and warding off infections. Rosehip, cranberry, coneflower, hibiscus and the heat of ginger root from Zerrikania, very rare.”

Jaskier drained his cup and grinned in delight. “Delicious. I love to taste something new.”

“I am in your debt, Erik. I don’t know what would have happened to me if you had not happened along. Perhaps I could repay you in herbs? You may take your pick.”

Jaskier waved a hand. “No payment necessary. If we cannot show each other kindness, especially in hard times, we are no better than beasts. Now, you should rest that ankle today. I brought in your firewood and if you point me in the right direction I’ll be happy to fetch water.”

When he returned bearing two full buckets, the old woman had ignored his advice to rest and was instead making breakfast. He raised an eyebrow at her.

“Psh, this is nothing. Willow bark is helping already. Honey?” she said, gold already dripping from a spoon onto a steaming bowl of porridge.

He decided not to argue with her or his empty stomach. “Thank you, that smells divine.”

“I have my own hive. Wax for candles too.”

“Very useful.” The porridge was the most delicious meal he could remember for a while, sitting warm and sweet in his belly, and he devoured it.

Mabyll watched him, her own small portion long finished, then motioned to the pot. “Finish it off. Yes, you will allow me to offer my poor hospitality at least.”

Jaskier tilted his head in assent, then scraped the pot clean. “Sometimes simplicity is exactly what’s needed.” He patted his stomach with a smile.

“Indeed. So what brings you to this part of the world?”

“Looking for someone.”

“Aren’t we all, aren’t we all, especially with this war and Cintra razed to ashes, I heard.”

He nodded. “The royal family was wiped out, terrible thing.”

“Terrible for Calanthe certainly.” Sharp grey eyes never left him.

“Well I hope my friend survived, he usually does.” He stood. Time to move on. “Is there anything else I can do for you?”

“See to your horse, and then come back. If I have to rest my foot, I might as well hear any tales you have to tell. Don’t get many visitors these days and market day will have to go on without me.”

“As you command, dear lady.” Jaskier swept a courtly bow, and went out to Pegasus. Maybe he could get some information from her, and it wouldn’t hurt to check over his supplies and see if there was anything he needed. He’d still make it to town in daylight.

* * *

Geralt made camp by a small stream and let Roach graze on straggly vegetation. Ciri gathered damp wood that spat and smoked and grudgingly gave up heat. When he returned from setting snares, she was huddled by the fire. Tomorrow, they’d reach the town and be able to rest and resupply. He had the coin.

“You’re cold.”

“No. Yes. Not sure.” Her cheeks were flushed but she shivered, hands stuck in her armpits.

He dug through a bag for human-safe remedies he had gathered over time, considering his potions were deadly to non-witchers. Jaskier had the annoying habit of downplaying his symptoms until he could hardly walk for fear of being left behind. As if he’d considered doing that any time in the last several years. As if being alone was in any way preferable.

In the end he decided to empty the bag and repack it tidily so he could take stock.

“What’s that?” She pointed at a scrap of white that stood out in the fading light against the dark earth.

He snatched it up, resisting the urge to chase the last vestiges of scent, and stuffed it back inside. “Nothing. I’ll make you some tea but we’ll need to see the healer.”

“I’m—” She sneezed three times in quick succession. “Don’t want tea.”

He laid a hand on her clammy forehead. “You’ll drink it. I don’t want you falling ill.”

“Hmm.” She closed her eyes. “Lace,” she murmured. “Pretty.”

Geralt busied himself with willow bark, elderflower and yarrow. He added the last of the honey he was saving for breakfast. Ciri needed it now to help the tea go down. She made a face and turned away from the cup. He tested its heat and blew on it, steam curling into the night air.

“Please. To make you feel better.”

“Eww.” She drank, grimaced, shivered, and tried to lie down on the cold ground outside the tent.

Geralt caught her and steered her inside the tent. “Bedroll, now.”

She crashed into sleep immediately. He ate the bread she did not want along with some jerky, and went through the evening routine.

Set out water and a handful of oats for Roach, and a quick brush down before adding her blanket.

Bank the fire and stack kindling nearby.

Fill the waterskins.

When all that was done, he sat on a damp log to sharpen his swords, the rhythmic motion of the whetstone and familiar sound calming him. She wasn’t used to being out in the cold and he vowed to find a room as soon as possible. His stock of safe herbs was depleted and there was little to pick as winter took hold of the land.

Swords done, he settled into a very light meditation, allowing his senses to merge with woodland sounds as the fire burned lower. Stars peeked through the tree canopy, just visible from under the pine tree he had chosen for its cover. He was alert in a heartbeat as Ciri stirred and muttered in her fitful sleep.

“No! no, please don't…”

Geralt crept into the tent and watched her thrash in her bedroll. She was even paler than normal, hair escaping its braids and spots of colour in her cheeks giving a false picture of health. He caught her flying fists in his hands and murmured soothing words, hoping she would settle. When she didn’t, he lay down and gathered her into his arms, rocking her gently until her whimpers trailed into silence. He spent the rest of the night listening to the rapid gallop of her heartbeat and the call of owls, wondering what monsters haunted her dreams.

He hoped the healer would agree to help.

Geralt was moving long before sunrise. The snares yielded one scrawny rabbit which he skinned with care, reserving the pelt, then set to cook while checking Roach’s feet and brushing her coat. Frost gilded tree branches and grass, and the sun held little warmth so he left the tent until last, instead eating the lightly cooked meat alone. Ciri needed more rest as well as a bed and a warm meal, assuming she felt better.

She did not stir when he lifted the tent flap and called her name. Her eyelids fluttered open, revealing a glassy stare that slid past him without recognition. She blinked.

“Wha—wha’sappenin’?”

“It’s morning, Ciri. We’re going to find a healer.”

He sat with her, coaxing water past chapped lips, then wiped her face and hands with warm water. She was silent and limp as a ragdoll, and by the time they were both mounted concern crawled like a burrowing insect under Geralt’s skin. He held her tight to him and walked Roach as fast as he dared.

At the next crossroads he turned towards the larger road as Ciri trembled in his grip. He ignored the noticeboards and stopped everyone he met. They all pointed him to the market square. When he got there, he scanned the stalls but saw nothing to suggest a healer. He called out but dared not dismount.

“The child needs a healer.”

A few faces turned towards him then away, and he bit down on his frustration. Fear and disdain, indifference and anger, these were his lot but he would not suffer them for his child.

“Please.”

A young woman approached, glancing between him and the shaking child. “Our wise woman has not come to market yet.” She pointed. “Take that road, you’ll meet her like as not. If not her cottage is close by the edge of the wood, there’s acorns carved above the door. She’ll set you right.”

“My thanks.” Geralt did not wait for a reply but urged Roach on, ignoring the curses of people leaping out of their way.

The cottage was too far away for Geralt, who wanted to gallop but reined in both himself and his horse. He slid from the horse and scooped Ciri into his arms, strode up to the door and banged on it.

“All right, all right.”

He listened to someone move towards the door, complaining and favouring one leg. The door opened too slowly and he started talking before he could see the healer.

“She has a fever and I have no more herbs to give her.”

Sharp grey eyes regarded him for a moment. “Bring her inside, lay her on the cot.” The old woman swung the door wide. “What have you given?”

“Yarrow, willow bark, elderflower. The last of the honey. Water.” He knelt by Ciri and clasped her cold hands.

“Any injury?” she asked, plucking jars and bundled leaves from her shelves.

“None that I know.”

“Hmm.” She started grinding herbs. “We’ll need some hot water. No, stay with her. I’ve help today. Erik!”

A horse whinnied, and then there were footsteps. “Coming.”

Geralt froze at the familiar voice. One he’d know anywhere.

The healer didn’t glance up from her work. “Ah, Erik, would you heat some water? We need a fever tea.”

The man who walked through the doorway stole Geralt’s breath. He was no peacock but stunning all the same in a brown leather jerkin over olive wool doublet, with dark hair tied back and a thick but neatly groomed beard. A strong, capable man.

“Of course, dear—” Wide, ocean blue eyes blinked once, twice. Jaskier exhaled in a rush of air. “Geralt?”

Geralt’s tongue felt too large for his mouth. “She - Fiona fell ill last night.”

Mabyll tutted. “I see you two are acquainted but that child is our priority. Take off her hat and cloak, give me room to work.”

Geralt watched Jaskier fill the kettle and set it over the fire. “She got too cold. I wanted – we were to find an inn tonight.”

“No doubt you have your reasons, but it’s freezing out there.” Mabyll squinted at her mixture and laid down the pestle. “I fell on the ice this morning, turned my ankle. Luckily this young man was good enough to help me home.”

Jaskier wiped his hands, holding Geralt's gaze. “It was my pleasure.”

Mabyll spoke again. “Is the water ready?”

“I believe so.”

Mabyll mixed the tea with a generous helping of honey. “Sit her up so she can drink.”

Geralt sat gingerly on the cot and cradled Ciri in his arms, letting the healer persuade her to drink and wiping away the stray drops from her chin. When the cup was empty they tucked her in with pillows and blankets, and Mabyll turned to the men filling her front room. She looked Geralt up and down, and he submitted to her scrutiny without comment. He smelt no fear on her.

“If I’m not mistaken, there are horses needing attention.” She went on in a softer tone. “She’ll sleep for a while, then we’ll see.”

“We’ll be back presently.” Jaskier slipped outside and Geralt followed.

Roach had not wandered far and was nibbling at something she probably shouldn’t have been eating. Geralt brought her to what could be charitably called a stable but was just a small lean to behind the cottage. A grey gelding, tacked up and ready, whinnied at their approach.

“This is not Stanion. What are you doing here, Erik?” he emphasised the name as he tied the reins.

“I’m happy to see you too.”

At the soft words Geralt looked up. The smile, the welcome he’d been craving greeted him. And before he could overthink it he opened his arms to the warm, alive, weight of his bard, unfamiliar in his drab clothing but safe and whole. He buried his nose at the angle of his jaw and inhaled. Strong arms enclosed him. The itch under his skin subsided and his chest released its tight coil of tension as the low murmur of his name wrapped around him like a prayer.

“Are you well?”

“Do I not look it?” Jaskier chuckled, and Geralt felt the smile against his skin. “All the better for seeing you and your daughter in one piece, if a little frayed around the edges.”

Geralt stepped back. “She’s kept up well, but there’s a bounty on her head and—"

“Don’t I know it. Flyers everywhere I go.”

“Hmm. She saw.”

“Poor child, to be burdened so.”

Geralt stiffened. He’d tried to keep it from her but she was observant and quick-witted, and he had to stay alert to all the possible dangers that came with being around people. He couldn't shield her from the world completely.

“Geralt. You always do your best, I know. I’ve seen it. This isn’t your doing.” A hand on his arm, gentling him. “Let’s take our bags and we’ll discuss our next move.”

Mabyll welcomed them inside. The room was pleasantly warm and Ciri slept peacefully under her blankets.

“Make yourselves useful,” she said. “Erik can brew winter tea for us all before he fetches more water and you, Master Witcher, can go hunt afterwards.”

Unacceptable. “We must move on.”

Jaskier stepped forward. “I would not dream of imposing on you further, it—”

“Nonsense.” She waved a hand. “She needs meat for her strength if she’s to travel as a boy. And before that she needs rest.”

Geralt glanced at Jaskier but got only a half-smile in reply. “I won’t risk your safety. We’ll go on to the town.”

Mabel frowned and came to stand directly in front of Geralt. Unafraid of his bulk and height, she tapped his chest.

“Now listen to me. Nobody will come, they assume I am busy. If they come, they will see a sick child and a stranger working off his debt to me. As long as you and your swords are away in the forest, there is no reason to question me.”

Geralt’s mouth twitched. She was not to be denied. “Very well.” He bowed his head in acquiescence and Mabyll beamed.

“Rabbit stew would be lovely. I have some root vegetables but meat is a rare treat.”

Geralt accepted his tea from Jaskier. It warmed his stomach while Jaskier chatted with Mabyll and Ciri drowsed. He would go deeper into the forest and hunt; a spell of solitude without worrying over leaving Ciri would do him good. And he had his bard back.

Mabyll simmered bones for a healing broth, then cooked a hearty stew flavoured with dried rosemary and thyme. She smiled when Geralt presented her with four rabbit pelts to line gloves or boots.

Dusk fell early and the cottage glowed with candles and a crackling fire. Jaskier peeled vegetables when asked and chattered about the places he’d visited while Geralt checked his supplies. The atmosphere was altogether more domestic than he had any right to. Maybe this was what cosy felt like, another thing never afforded to witchers.

Ciri muttered in her sleep and he was there to stroke her cheek and brush damp strands of hair from her forehead until she settled. He knew Jaskier was watching but he dared not say anything to break the fragile peace.

Mabyll insisted they all stay, though she was persuaded to keep her bed. Ciri had barely woken, and in the end it was an easy decision to let her rest.

Bedrolls on the floor were still more comfort than either a cold forest floor or a thin straw mattress bought with too much coin and hostility, and even if Geralt would not sleep he appreciated the aura of safety that surrounded the cottage. He’d touched the patterns carved over the door and felt the hum of power in hidden runes that were more than mere decoration.

That night Geralt knelt in light meditation near the door, keeping watch over the heartbeats and soft breathing of the three humans under his protection.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yennefer surfaces and finds she is not the same; Geralt and Jaskier find a refuge; and Ciri enjoys a little mothering, as a treat. 
> 
> The Continent is full of danger but Mabyll the healer knows which side she's on.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Our trio were meant to push on northwards but Mabyll had other ideas so I followed along.

* * *

_You are strong again. You are ready._

She stretched, bending left and right, cocooned in warmth. With each heartbeat, energy pulsed in her veins, like ripples on the surface of a lake. She hadn’t felt so luxuriously sated since – well it was hard to remember when. Something tickled her feet and she kicked against the contact, finding that as she did she grew weightless, rising towards the light.

_strong_

_ready_

She opened her eyes.

Yennefer woke in a softly lit room. Clouds raced across grey sky visible through a curtained window, but no wind entered. A desk covered in papers and objects sat beneath the window, and the walls were covered with neatly shelved books. Deep green velvet drapes hung around the bed and her fingers tangled in the softest of furs. She sighed, turning her head from side to side. The scent of incense hung in the air. The best part was that nothing hurt.

“You’re awake. Rise and join me, if you can.”

Yennefer scoffed. “Of course I can.”

Tissaia’s voice came from across the room. “Then do so.”

She flexed her fingers and toes, able to feel the small movements this time. In one smooth motion she sat up and swung her legs over the side of her bed, eyes closed, rejoicing in movement. Then she glanced down and gasped.

“What – what is this?”

On her formerly unmarked skin, dark tendrils crept down her arms, branching tree-like into finer, paler lines on her fingers and palms. She stretched out her legs and found the same pattern, this time starting with a thick line from the arch of her foot and proceeding upwards. Uncaring of her audience she ripped off her shift, tracing twin lines on her thighs that crossed the crease of her groins and converged under the left breast before forking again to pass down her shoulders. The marks remained after she rubbed skin that was still soft and smooth.

“No.” She closed her eyes against the hot spill of tears, against the loss of beauty she bought with so much pain.

“Becoming chaos leaves its mark, Yennefer.” Tissaia rose and picked up the shift before draping it against Yennefer’s body. She sat and took her hands with unexpected gentleness.

“You were the lightning, and you cracked but did not break. You sent me here, and with your last breath, at the point of death, you opened an untrackable portal.”

“Like the one that brought me here as a child.” Power thrummed in her veins but she felt hollow, empty as she never had since ascension.

“I told you, life had more to offer. If it did not, you would surely have died there, in Sodden, consumed by chaos.”

She wept then, her world shrunk to the soft glow of torches and thumbs brushing her hands, trembling with energy that tried to escape her skin like an angry djinn and the crashing realisation that beauty was never to be hers.

_Even so no-one would love you_

She had only her utility. Importance through function. Always a hard bargain at too high a price.

“You drowned me in the pool.” Her voice was scratchy and hoarse, remembering water. Swimming. Her sisters, whispering. No worries, no concerns, no pain. It was the easiest existence she'd ever known.

Tissaia dropped her hands and returned to her chair. “Clearly I did no such thing, unless you fancy me a necromancer.”

Yennefer hung her head at the sharp tone and loss of contact. “No. Sorry. You saved me.”

_But for what?_

“Merely repaying a debt. Few know of Hen Loc y Treise or its healing powers. The eels channel chaos into the waters and full immersion is required to access it.” Tissaia pursed her lips. “Even then.”

Yennefer slipped into her shift, drying her eyes on the hem. Sorceresses don’t cry. “Even then?”

Tissaia did not reply for a time, head bowed. “The damage may be too great. The will to survive not equal to the task. Even with pure chaos on your side.” She looked up and her eyes glittered. “We all owe you a great deal, but I am glad I can tell you face to face. Come, drink.”

She motioned to a comfortable armchair near her own, and Yennefer walked over. Her steps seemed oddly light, as though she might float away.

“You were unconscious when you arrived, hands and feet smoking and burnt. It takes time for the sense of feeling to return after such an injury.” Tissaia poured wine and pushed a plate of fine cheeses, bread and fruit across the table. “Weeks have passed without the certainty that you would recover fully, or at all.”

Yennefer crumbled the bread, the feel of each grain distinct against her fingertips. She was certain the emptiness in her belly was not hunger.

“Eat.”

She could not remember when she had last heard that imperious tone, but now as then it compelled her to obey. The wine was sweet and watered, and food helped her feel more solid.

“Better?”

“Mmm.” She devoured the whole plate. “Feel more real, thankfully.”

“Your energies have been – let us say, divided. The corporeal and the spiritual separated so that the body may be repaired while the life-force remains on the mortal plane, bound but content to await reunion.”

Yennefer laughed but without humour. “You’re saying I’m some kind of wraith now?”

A single raised eyebrow silenced her. “Do you not have a body? Do you feel a compulsion to kill or seek vengeance on anyone." Tissaia's gaze pinned her. "On me, perhaps?”

 _No more than usual._ “Not at present, no.”

“Excellent.” Tissaia stood. “I’m going to the library, join me there if you will. My rooms are at your disposal until such time as you wish to reclaim your own chambers.”

Yennefer watched Tissaia depart, speechless for once. She stood, feeling the hard ground press against her feet in support. Well, she was alive, against all odds. Better make the best of it, as always.

She had so many questions – but first, a bath.

* * *

Jaskier lay warm and safe inside a thick bedroll on the floor of a homely cottage. He knew Geralt was meditating rather than sleeping, and welcomed the cover of darkness to sort through the events of the day.

His journey to Mortlak had been interrupted by helping out an injured woman, which led somehow to meeting up with Geralt and his child surprise. That moment of recognition and the embrace that followed warmed him still, easing his need for affirmation that it was real, this thing growing between them, and it meant something to Geralt too even if not as much. He tucked it away safe in his heart, wanting both to examine it closely and hide it from sight.

There was an annoying itch on his left calf, but if he moved Geralt would definitely know he was awake. He settled for a small wiggle that was not enough to quell it completely. It would subside, probably.

Destiny worked in mysterious ways, but for once seemed to be in their favour. He should have been on his way well before the knock on the healer’s door. To be fair, he should have been on his way to a meeting point much further north, if he was keeping to the agreed script. But improvising was his style, and he’d never taken Geralt’s direction before so why start now? They’d be better travelling together, and at least he could hold a proper conversation, tell stories perhaps. He couldn’t imagine how Ciri had managed with her taciturn guardian.

And wasn’t that quite the surprise, seeing Geralt sticking to her side and even offering actual physical comfort. Risking scorn to get the child what she needed. His witcher was growing into a good father, not that Jaskier thought he’d be anything less, even if he—

“Go to sleep,” Geralt muttered, barely audible. “Erik.” He somehow managed to sound both amused and threatening.

Well that was just unfair. It was a perfectly good alias Jaskier had pulled from thin air, because he’d been changing his name to avoid detection. He huffed quietly, gave his calf a really satisfying scratch, stretched, and was asleep in the next breath.

* * *

Geralt roused from meditation as Ciri muttered and rolled over on the narrow cot.

“Geralt, please.” She bolted upright, eyes staring ahead.

He stepped around the bedroll that had a tangle of brown hair peeking out, and knelt beside her. “I’m here, you’re safe.” He stroked her hand until she blinked and looked around.

“Where am I?”

“In a healer’s cottage. You had a fever, remember?”

Ciri yawned. “Not really. Can I have some water?” She drank greedily from the offered cup and he drew it away.

“Not too much, you might throw it up again.”

“He’s right. And good morning, young one.” Mabyll appeared in the doorway. “You look better. I’m Mabyll, your father brought you here. Desperate state both of you were in, but a good night’s sleep cures many an ill.”

“Thank you for taking care of me.” Ciri rubbed her face and grimaced. “I feel so – I mean, I’d be obliged if…” She trailed off, cheeks pink and eyes downcast.

Geralt had no idea what she wanted but Mabyll came to his rescue.

“I understand, my dear. We’ll have a little breakfast and then when these gentlemen are off doing chores, we’ll see what we can do about that lovely hair and a bath, perhaps.”

Ciri broke into a smile so bright that Geralt didn’t know where to look. “That would be wonderful. We were to go to an inn, before I fell ill.”

“This is better,” Mabyll said. “I can help you.” She set to heating water, and Geralt escaped to see to the horses. Jaskier slept on.

Outside was dull but marginally less cold than the previous day. Roach was pleased to see him and the grey gelding had no objection to being fussed over. Once he’d provided water and oats, he set to brushing each horse thoroughly. Jaskier’s appearance had been an unexpected bonus. They could travel further each day with two horses and money would be less of a problem.

There had been no music though and no lute either, which he found troubling. Had he ever seen Jaskier without Filavandrel’s gift? That was a question for later, after Mabyll had done whatever she planned with Ciri. Geralt wasn’t given to easy trust, he’d been burned too many times, but the old woman took to Ciri straight away and he detected no ill intent.

Roach nosed at his pockets. “Sorry girl, no treats for you.”

He turned to the grey, who whinnied softly. “What manner of beast are you? We’ll see soon enough.” He checked feet and tack, and considered his next move. A talk with Jaskier, in private.

When he returned to the cottage a fire blazed and porridge waited on the table where Jaskier sat, waving hello with his mouth full. His blue eyes sparkled though, and something in Geralt’s chest answered.

Mabyll motioned him to sit, and he did so. Ciri had already finished and was trying to comb her fingers through her hair. It was tangled and dirty under the cap, grease dulling its bright ash blonde.

“Now stop that young lady. Such beautiful hair, but rather eye-catching, hm?” She pursed her lips, head to one side. “I wouldn’t like to cut it, no. I have just the thing.”

Ciri nodded, lips pressed together and eyes wide. Geralt had no doubt she would agree to lose her hair if it helped them evade the army, but he caught the fear and sadness in the air. He could understand having so little to call your own, and yet being asked to sacrifice even that.

“Now there’s a tub to fill." Mabel pointed at the men in turn. "You, chop some wood and you, fill the tub with warm water. Then we ladies will have some privacy while you do whatever you must. There’s a baker and a smith in town if you need.”

Jaskier grinned. “We are your willing servants, dear lady.”

Once the wood was gathered and water heating for the bath, the men withdrew to the stable.

“I thought I’d go into Mortlak and find out what I can.”

Geralt hummed. “I can’t leave Ciri.”

“How did you manage on the road?”

“Left her locked in the inn sometimes, or with Roach. Didn’t like it.” He remembered the itch of worry that had him rushing back to her side. “She knew to run if she had to.”

“Sounds ghastly. But I’m here now so we can split the burden,” Jaskier said with a small smile. “I’ll get my things.”

When Jaskier returned, Geralt found himself staring again. Bearded Jaskier looked so different in earth colours, leather jerkin snug around a trim waist and short sword at his hip. This was no rainbow hued fop in silks. His strength and assurance caught Geralt by surprise, the answering heat in his gut even more so.

Jaskier swung himself into the saddle and looked down. Geralt didn’t quite know what to do with the half-smile and bright eyes he’d seen turned on so many others over the years. Others, but never him. This Jaskier was an exciting conundrum, and Geralt felt unworthy even as he was drawn to him.

“I’ll stay here.”

“I’m sure you’ll find something to do, you don't like idleness.”

“Stay out of trouble, bard.”

He laughed and then winked. “I’m not a bard right now, I’m Erik.”

Geralt watched him ride out of sight. Maybe one day he’d tell Jaskier why that name was an interesting choice. Meantime, he’d clean his armour and see to any tasks the healer needed doing. The lean-to roof could use patching, and more firewood was always a good thing as winter sunk its claws deeper.

Geralt gathered and chopped enough wood to last several weeks, cut planks to reinforce the roof, cleaned out the little stable, and did all the little jobs of maintenance he could see around the cottage. He was going through his forms, having warmed up enough to shed his gambeson, when Mabyll called him.

“Come inside, you must need a drink. What do you think of this?”

The air was heavy with earthy herbal scents. Ciri was pink-faced and freshly scrubbed in a clean chemise that was a little large. Her hair was no longer blonde but a warm chestnut colour reminiscent of Roach’s coat. Now she could be kin to Jaskier, and the idea was unsettling.

She smiled at him uncertainly. “Mabyll helped me dye my hair.” When he remained silent she went on, “We can still cut it if—”

“No,” he said. “It’s – you look well.” 

Mabyll wore a satisfied smile. “Acorns are good for more than pig feed, plus beetroot to make it more red." She trailed her fingers through brown waves. "I’ll help you braid it, then tuck it under your cap and you are an apprentice again.”

“It’s so soft, Geralt.” Ciri’s glossy hair flew around her as she twirled, young and carefree in a way he had never seen before. He had no words to tell her how lovely she looked, how he wished she could always be like this; clean and happy, safe and warm. Then she sneezed.

“Better get dressed, don’t want to get cold,” he murmured.

Mabyll took her hand. “She’s fine, master witcher.” She nodded at him, eyes knowing. “No need to trouble yourself. She’s a strong one.”

“Call me Geralt,” he said.

He watched the bedroom door shut behind them and got to peeling the potatoes and carrots waiting on the wooden table. Ciri had a way of endearing herself to older women, drawing first Zola and now Mabyll into her orbit. The child needed mothering, but gods knew there would be none of that in Kaer Morhen, and precious little softness of any kind.

He’d told Ciri the barest amount about Yennefer when asked, and she had taken the hint and stopped questioning him. His cruel words about motherhood haunted him almost as much as the tongue-lashing he’d handed out to Jaskier on the mountain, but he doubted Yen would be as forgiving. In any case Ciri was a responsibility he would not shirk or hand off to others. 

He heard a horse approaching, then Jaskier’s voice as he untacked the gelding and kept up a running commentary. Mabyll’s door was still shut and he went outside, purposely making noise with his steps.

Jaskier turned to meet him. “Ah Geralt, hello. I had the most productive time in the market, so much to see, surprising for a town this size, but I suppose we’re quite close to the larger routes.”

“Did you find out any news?”

“Yes, the baker’s wife Cristin is a lovely woman, very chatty, and she’s lived here all her life. Her youngest had a bad fever recently but Mabyll saw to him and he’s right as rain.” He unloaded his bags as he talked, never running out of breath.

Geralt pushed aside his irritation at the lack of answer to a simple question. This was his bard, and he was full of words. “News, Erik.”

“Yes, I’m getting there all right?” Jaskier waved a hand. “I just mentioned that Mabyll had a sore ankle and couldn’t walk to market, and Cristin gave me a loaf for her and then she told me that soldiers came through here a week or so back and left notices on all the boards.” He carried the bags as he spoke. “And I got supplies. I’m sure you’re grateful I spared you the agony of shopping.”

Geralt took a bag, finding it heavier than it looked, and opened the cottage door. There stood Ciri, hair falling about her shoulders, smiling.

Jaskier gasped theatrically, one hand to his chest. “Oh, what beauty blesses my eyes! Fiona you are simply breathtaking and Mabyll, truly you have wrought alchemy of a kind rarely seen.”

“Do you like the colour? Lovely, isn’t it. Grandmother wouldn’t have approved though, she always liked that I looked like my mother.” Ciri stopped, eyes downcast.

Jaskier took both her hands in his. “They would both have loved how beautiful and brave you are. They’d be proud of you, as we are.”

Ciri blinked and tears ran down her face. “I don’t h-have a handkerchief,” she said, lip trembling.

“Oh, my dear girl.” Jaskier opened his arms and she fell into them with a sob.

Geralt considered for a moment, then pulled a white linen square edged with lace and embroidered with the letter J from his pack and pressed it into her hand. The scent was gone anyway. “Here.”

“Thank you.” She dabbed at her eyes. “Won’t they mind?”

Jaskier inhaled sharply when he caught sight of the crumpled square and pressed his lips together. “I don’t think the owner would mind at all,” he said quietly, “not if it helps you stop crying.”

Geralt watched them embrace, and saw his path unfurl before him. He would fight and protect and do whatever he must, as long as his people were safe.

* * *

Jaskier held on to Ciri until her shoulders stopped shaking, then loosened his grip so she could dab her eyes with his handkerchief. He had never pinned Geralt as the sentimental type, and when did he steal it anyway? There was no denying the warmth in his chest. Ciri didn’t remember him but accepted his comfort, and his gruff witcher kept a memento – a lady’s favour – close by. The image of a gallant knight and his lady exchanging love tokens made him smile. He and Geralt were the farthest thing from that courtly notion. Maybe he could write a song about it.

Mabyll had retreated to the table to finish preparing dinner, and she cleared her throat loudly.

“I’ve tea here for those who need it, and even for those who think they don’t.” Four steaming cups waited, and Ciri was the first to take one.

“Thank you, this is delicious.”

“You can take some with you if you’d like. The weather will hold for a couple more days I’d say, and you can make good time.”

Geralt cleared his throat. “We’ll be away at first light.” He sipped his own tea and kept his eyes down.

Time to lighten the mood, Jaskier decided. “We have imposed enough on you, dear Mabyll, and we are eternally in your debt. For tonight, let’s have a little music while we wait for your truly excellent stew.” He opened his waterproof case and pulled out panpipes and a small drum.

“I am no expert musician, but perhaps Fiona could beat a rhythm while I play, as befits a young apprentice.” He caught Geralt’s questioning look but merely winked.

Ciri clapped her hands. “Yes, I can do that.”

“Oh, I’ve not heard music in a long time,” Mabyll said with a soft smile. “Do you know _My love is away to the hills_?”

“The old tunes are often the best.” He took a swig of tea and began piping, the notes clear and sweet. Ciri banged the drum with enthusiasm and reasonable timing, and they played together for a few minutes. Then Mabyll began to sing.

_I used to have a song on my lips_

_I used to dance, a sway in my hips_

_sweet flowers wreathed about my head_

_And with my love I’d lightly tread_

_But I’ve forgotten all my skills_

_Since my love went away to the hills_

_I missed him then, I miss him still_

_Oh my love is away to the hills_

_He swore with gold he’d soon return_

_He wouldn’t leave me here to yearn_

_But here I stand, a maid forlorn_

_For my man is gone, and now I mourn_

_He said he’d be but a night and day_

_It’s been a year and still I wait_

_Through summer heat and winter chill_

_For my love who is lost to the hills_

_I missed him then, I miss him still_

_Oh my love is away to the hills_

Mabyll clapped her hands, and Jaskier added some flourishes to the simple tune to end with. He finished and held up his tea in a toast before draining it. And the witcher’s mouth lifted in a tiny smile that was worth more than any coin or competition win. Jaskier had played in courts and taverns all over the continent but this was one of his very favourite concerts, even without his beautiful lute to accompany him.

Night fell, Ciri stamped her feet and drummed with a laugh, and Jaskier played on.

Much later, when candles flickered and the fire glowed, after dinner was eaten and animals tended, the women withdrew to the bedroom and left the men to share the small bath. Jaskier folded his long legs and soaped his arms with a sigh. The tub was entirely inadequate in size, the water just above lukewarm, and it was the most wonderful bath ever.

“I didn’t know you played the pipes.” Geralt kept his eyes on the short sword he was sharpening.

“I am a man of varied musical talents, I’ll have you know.” Malec’s words whispered in Jaskier’s memory. “There was a bard, one night in a tavern. Soldiers took him and no-one objected.”

“Hm.”

“They’re looking for a bard in silks playing a lute. I’m a scribe, or sometimes a clerk whose lord has sent me to his brother’s estate.” Jaskier kept his voice low. “So I’m not the person they seek.”

“You are... much changed.” Geralt kept his eyes down and Jaskier felt a ridiculous pang of disappointment even as he understood; they couldn’t do anything after all, but surely looking was no crime. He ducked his head under the water to hide his pout, and when he emerged Geralt was behind him.

“Let me,” Geralt murmured. He took the sturdy bar of herbal soap, their fingers sliding together for a brief moment of contact that was over too soon. Jaskier tilted his head forward and bit off a moan at the strong, sure touch of fingertips scraping against his scalp, dragging circles from his forehead all the way back to his neck. Lather was worked from the roots of his hair to the tips.

Thumbs dug into his shoulders and he knew his witcher detected the spike in his pulse, the catch in his breathing, the arousal in his belly. Then Geralt scooped water over his hair, finishing with a firm tug that took him by surprise. His cock jerked in answer. He dared not touch it.

“You evil, evil man, teasing me like that,” he said, aiming for stern but landing on breathless, eyes still closed against water trickling down his face.

“Just helping out.”

“This is the opposite of helping out.” Jaskier scrubbed water from his face and looked up at the witcher trying to hide his smile. The tub would definitely not fit two grown men and it would be impolite to sully the water before Geralt got clean. No matter how much he wanted to.

He sighed, grabbed a towel, and stood. “Your turn.” Jaskier took his time covering up and was delighted to catch Geralt’s heated gaze and quick lick of the lips before he turned away to strip. Yes, good, he thought. Look but don’t touch.

Geralt was magnificent as always, fire and candles casting golden light over the planes of his pale, scarred skin. He washed efficiently and quickly, stepping out of the bath with no care for modesty as Jaskier finished dressing in blessedly warm dry clothes.

“I would have washed your hair,” he grumbled. “Come here.” He sat by the fire and Geralt arranged himself on the floor between his legs. Soon he was rumbling in contentment as Jaskier smoothed oil through his hair until it was like silk.

“You never cut your hair short.”

Geralt shrugged. “I have. Looks bad people said, so I let it grow. They know it’s me then.”

“Not some other handsome swordsman with golden eyes,” Jaskier said fondly, braiding and unbraiding in sections. “It’s lovely anyway.”

“It’s hair.”

“Not just hair. Would you dye it, like Ciri? Ha! That’s what I thought.”

Geralt hummed, head lolling against Jaskier’s thigh, a warm and comforting weight.

Tomorrow they’d move on, further north, away from the pursuing armies and towards the sanctuary of the witcher keep. Right then, Jaskier enjoyed the moment of respite. He planned to persuade Geralt to sleep for once and gather his strength for the challenges ahead.

He sang an old lullaby quietly while rubbing tension from Geralt’s shoulders, and dreamed of the day he could recreate this quiet happiness, sitting with his witcher before a fire, safe and warm.

By the time Jaskier opened his eyes next morning, Geralt was seeing to the horses and Mabyll had breakfast ready. Ciri emerged from the bedroom with her hair tightly braided around her head and dressed in fresh clothes. Little was said as they went about their routines. Mabyll pressed a linen bag into Geralt’s hands, murmuring about herbs in a low voice only he could hear.

Jaskier ate his porridge and set about packing up Geralt’s bedroll and the cot he’d slept on. Ciri helped wash up the plates.

Jaskier could see the witcher wanted to leave, his impatience tamed into complete stillness as he stood near the door. 

“My dear lady. We will never forget your kindness.” He kissed her knobbled hands and squeezed gently. “Long life and good health, Mabyll. May the Goddess watch over you.”

“And may she ease your way.” Mabyll blinked, eyes bright. “Look after her, and look after yourselves. I‘ve not had such a merry house for many a year. And Geralt. You are both more and less than the stories say. Your path is not easy, but it is the right one.”

Gold eyes met grey, and both seemed satisfied with what they found. Then Ciri surged forward to hold Mabyll tight.

“Easy Fiona, her ankle—”

“Is much better,” Mabyll said. She closed her eyes and melted into the embrace. Then she fished a small amulet on a leather strip from her apron pocket and tied it around Ciri’s neck. “Be safe, young one.”

Ciri touched the milky blue stone reverently. “Thank you for having us, you don’t – I can’t tell you how much – thank you.”

“Hush child, I know. I wager these two gentlemen will keep you out of harm’s way. Remember what I told you.”

Ciri sniffled and slipped the amulet inside her shirt. “I will.”

“You’ve plenty of firewood and salted meat. Mended the stable roof and the chicken coop.” Geralt paused, and they all waited for him to find the words. “If we pass this way again, may we visit?”

Mabyll scoffed. “What kind of a question is that? I’ll be here. My door is always open to you all.”

“Thank you for everything,” Geralt rumbled.

Jaskier swept a deep bow. “Until next time.”

They mounted their horses and turned north-east. Ciri waved until the bend in the path hid Mabyll’s little cottage from sight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The things we do for fic, eh? Researching Elder Speech and natural dyes, writing a ballad, all so they can have a little respite before the run for the keep.  
> Hen loc y treise = ancient lake of power  
> Ciri's amulet is moonstone, representing guidance on the right path and the powerful feminine energies of intuition and motherhood.  
> Yennefer's markings are based on skin tattoos sometimes seen when someone survives being struck by lightning.
> 
> I hope you enjoyed, and there will be more in the series (once I figure out the ideal hurt/comfort ratio.)
> 
> Marking this part done for now, thanks for reading. I appreciate you all. ♡

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! I treasure your kudos and comments - they make words grow.


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